


magdalena

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Dean is currently an adult), Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: January 26, 2000. Dean finishes working for the night.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Magdalena_ , track two of _Mer de Noms_

_I'd sell my soul, my self-esteem,_  
_a dollar at a time, for one chance_  
_one kiss, one taste of you_  
  


The Impala's parked back in front of the motel building when Dean finally escapes the trucker's lounge. He checks his watch—only two in the morning, so Dad must've had an early one. He crunches across the snowy parking lot, away from the parked semis and trailers, his coat collar pulled up against the frigid night. They're on the second floor, for once, and the metal stair rail is freezing, but he can't not use it—he's too sore, too tired.

For a glorified truck stop, they take good care of their rooms, and the door doesn't even creak as he eases his way inside, lets it click back closed behind him. Dad's snoring, on the closer bed, laid out on top of the covers with his boots still on. He's on his stomach, at least. Dean won't have to get him to turn over, make sure his airway's clear. On the other bed, Sammy's shoulders are tight and resentful even when he's sleeping, curled up and facing the wall, edged over as far as he can get from Dad.

Dean leans back against the door, drops his head back against the thin wood veneer of it, and just breathes, for a second. The air's a little funky in here, feet and beer and dirty laundry, but it's warm, and there aren't any monsters waiting outside it. It's enough, for now.

He's practiced this enough that he's silent at it, even in the bare slivers of truck-stop light that peek past the heavy polyester curtains. He heels off his boots and carries them over to tuck them neatly beside his and Sam's bags, next to where Sam's left his ratty sneakers half-tumbled and messy. Coat slipped off, bundle of cash tucked into the hidden pocket he sewed into his duffel back when he started this. Almost a half dozen years now and it's holding tight, but the seam's starting to feel a little loose—he'll have to check it, re-stitch it maybe, next time he's alone. His knees crack when he stands back up and he bites back a groan, wants to just pass out, but—not yet. His shirt smells like cigarettes, and his jeans are stained at the knees from the gravel-mud out back of the lounge bathrooms, and he should hide them before Dad asks—he hasn't noticed, yet, but that doesn't mean he won't.

He makes sure the bathroom door's shut tight before he flicks the light on. He can't risk a shower, 'cause even if Dad's wasted he'd wake up at that for sure, and anyway he's tired enough that he might pass out, and drown, and then what would Dad and Sam do. He sits down to take a leak, hunched forward on the john. Makes the bruises ache a little, but not any worse than he's had before. Strips naked, when he's done. Wets a rag and takes care of the worst of it. Brushes his teeth, staring into the mostly-clean mirror. He doesn't look too bad, considering. He takes his time rinsing his mouth out, leaning hard on his elbows on the cool linoleum, and the water's cold and clear and sharp, painful on his raw throat, but he gulps it down anyway.

Back out into the room, moving in the dark again. Dad's still snoring. The dirty clothes get bundled up in the bottom of the duffel with the rest of the laundry. Blind, he steps into clean boxers, the old Sabbath t-shirt he sleeps in, the one Sam pretends to think is lame but curls his hand into when he wraps himself around Dean, when he forgets he's too old for that kind of thing, anymore. There's a 750 of Wild Turkey nearly gone on the nightstand and Dean necks it, takes two deep swallows that sting like fucking fire on his throat, but it's worth it for the warmth that immediately settles like lava in the pit of his belly. He stands there for a second, wavering between the two beds, before he finally puts the bottle down and eases the covers back on their bed, slips in and pulls the blanket up to his shoulders.

The heater in the wall kicks on, lets a hum out into the air. Dean shivers, suddenly and hard, his body going stiff for a second under the blanket before it eases, and then he really feels it—the sore spots on his knees, his hips, the low muscles in his back where he'd been twisted around, shoved up against the wall and not hurting, really, but not exactly comfortable either. Sam doesn't move, still breathing steady and low over on his side of the mattress, and Dean wants to reach out, wants to pull him in and curl himself around the familiar sweet warmth of him, but—Sam's been weird about that, lately. Bitchy more and more, everything only acceptable on his terms, and Dean's too tired to risk setting him off.

He curls an arm under his pillow, watches the way Sam's back slowly rises and falls. Sam just keeps growing, up and up. Dean made enough tonight that he'll have cash left over to get him into a new pair of sneakers, so he'll stop complaining about sore feet when they're doing their PT. If they hit a thrift store he'll get Sam a few new pairs of jeans, too, so when he inevitably shoots up another few inches at least he won't be rocking the high-water look.

He's drifting, sort of, held in that place just before sleep, when Sam flinches—Dean reaches a hand out, immediately awake, but manages to stop before he makes contact. Sam makes that little half-upset moan, high at the back of his throat. Just a dream, and Dean starts to pull back—but then Sam's turning over, right into Dean's space, and all of a sudden he has an armful of sleepy-soft little brother, all elbows and knees and his big bony hand, curling a loose fistful of Dean's shirt, right over the center of his chest. Dean lets Sam arrange him to his satisfaction—ends up with a thigh between his, cold feet on his calves, Sam's head tucked under his chin. He slips his hand under Sam's t-shirt, slides it up the warm silk of the skin over Sam's spine, and Sam lets out a long, sleepy sigh, rolls his weight into Dean's so Dean's forced onto his back. He tucks his face down into Sam's hair, finds himself smiling. Sammy smells like everything familiar, that tinge of boy-sweat and warm sleep that's followed Dean into unconsciousness his entire life. Sam's dick is pressed in against Dean's hip, just a little chubbed from the night, and Dean's too tired for much of a response, but he lets his hand slide down to the small of Sam's back, lets his thumb slip slowly over the golden, baby-fine hair there.

Dad snorts, on the other bed, and turns over. Sam snuffles into Dean's collarbone and slips right back into deep sleep. Dean turns his head—the little clock that comes with the room says it's almost three, and he knows he should be up at seven, getting them out the door, because it's laundry tomorrow and then south, to the poltergeist in Taos. For now, though—Dean tightens his arms around Sam, puts his nose back into the silk of his hair. He did good work tonight, and his family's safe and together. He presses a kiss against Sam's head and relaxes, finally. He's earned it.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/155623307144/magdalena)


End file.
